for a very long time, nursing the pain of the brutal end his fellow clansmen had come to at the hands of other, more powerful clans. Nursing also his faith that, in the end, Fate would deliver what she had promised. The stone… and the woman who would help him return prosperity to what was left of Glenmuir.
After a century of time, he'd finally sought out company. It was that or go mad. Gregor's ancestors had erected the croft and their small farm holding by then. He'd taken to visiting late at night, when the master of the croft was well in his cups and unlikely to question the reality of his unearthly guest come morning. Gregor had been a particular favorite. Quite verbose in his opinions of… well, most everything.
Those visits had afforded him not only knowledgeof the world beyond this place, but of what was happening about the island itself. He'd begun to feel his faith slip as he watched his homeland near its final years. There was no new life on Glenmuir, and those who inhabited it weren't long for this world. Once they were gone, Glenmuir would fall to its final ruin. As much a ghost of her former self as he was.
Then he had come to realize Fate's reasoning. If he was being punished somehow for his brothers’ refusal to accept the promise of the stone by being forced to witness the slow, torturous result of their careless choices, then his reward for keeping faith would logically be saving Glenmuir once and for all. Snatching it back from the yaw of ruin and death.
Now that time was blessedly, mercifully at hand and he was more than ready for the task that lay before him, regardless of the challenges yet to be met. But was he really ready to leave this place once and for all when he'd achieved his goal?
“Good God, yes,” he breathed.
She was heading directly toward the water now. He was drawn from his musings and moved to the next opening in the tower wall. She certainly didn't plan to raft her way to the mainland, did she? She'd be heading in the wrong direction, if that were the case.
He watched in amusement. She was not a Scot, which had put him at a bit of a loss. Why had the Fates tossed a foreign-born woman into his path? Perhaps she had Scots blood somewhere in her ancestry. He shrugged off his curiosity. Destiny was often a puzzle, one not to be solved by mere men. He knew from centuries spent trying.
It wasn't until she waded out into the water, with the beam held aloft, that he began to grow concerned. “Gods, she's planning on drowning herself!”
“Nay, she's out to hunt waves.”
Connal's spine stiffened at the arrival of his newest companion. “I don't recall requesting your guidance, Bagan.” Their discussion last eve had done little to raise the guardian in his estimation. Connal turned to find him seated precariously in a window opening and had to forcibly resist the urge to send him toppling out of it. Not that it would do any good. Blasted guardianship protected him. Had it protected the stone as well, he might not have spent the past three centuries stuck in this bloody tower.
“Ye needn't scowl at me so,” Bagan said, apparently unfazed by his chilly reception. “I've explained about the storm. Ye can hardly hold me accountable for that. Even Josie said so.”
“Josie?” So that was her name. He hadn't thought to ask last night. It sounded… odd on his lips. Foreign. “Short for Josephine, then.” Josephine. Yes, he liked that better. “Another MacLeod is she?” That would help explain the choice.
“Nay, no’ a MacLeod. Griffin is her surname. And 'tis simply Josie. Something to do with being named after a family cat.” Bagan waved a stubby hand. “A long story.”
Connal frowned. “Yes, I can imagine. I'll hear it from her.”
“Have yer way then,” Bagan said dismissively.
“Had I my way, I'd have been married to the Lady Elsinor, sired a castleful of hardy bairns, and been long dead by now.”
Bagan offered a cheeky smile. “Ye got half yer desire
After a century of time, he'd finally sought out company. It was that or go mad. Gregor's ancestors had erected the croft and their small farm holding by then. He'd taken to visiting late at night, when the master of the croft was well in his cups and unlikely to question the reality of his unearthly guest come morning. Gregor had been a particular favorite. Quite verbose in his opinions of… well, most everything.
Those visits had afforded him not only knowledgeof the world beyond this place, but of what was happening about the island itself. He'd begun to feel his faith slip as he watched his homeland near its final years. There was no new life on Glenmuir, and those who inhabited it weren't long for this world. Once they were gone, Glenmuir would fall to its final ruin. As much a ghost of her former self as he was.
Then he had come to realize Fate's reasoning. If he was being punished somehow for his brothers’ refusal to accept the promise of the stone by being forced to witness the slow, torturous result of their careless choices, then his reward for keeping faith would logically be saving Glenmuir once and for all. Snatching it back from the yaw of ruin and death.
Now that time was blessedly, mercifully at hand and he was more than ready for the task that lay before him, regardless of the challenges yet to be met. But was he really ready to leave this place once and for all when he'd achieved his goal?
“Good God, yes,” he breathed.
She was heading directly toward the water now. He was drawn from his musings and moved to the next opening in the tower wall. She certainly didn't plan to raft her way to the mainland, did she? She'd be heading in the wrong direction, if that were the case.
He watched in amusement. She was not a Scot, which had put him at a bit of a loss. Why had the Fates tossed a foreign-born woman into his path? Perhaps she had Scots blood somewhere in her ancestry. He shrugged off his curiosity. Destiny was often a puzzle, one not to be solved by mere men. He knew from centuries spent trying.
It wasn't until she waded out into the water, with the beam held aloft, that he began to grow concerned. “Gods, she's planning on drowning herself!”
“Nay, she's out to hunt waves.”
Connal's spine stiffened at the arrival of his newest companion. “I don't recall requesting your guidance, Bagan.” Their discussion last eve had done little to raise the guardian in his estimation. Connal turned to find him seated precariously in a window opening and had to forcibly resist the urge to send him toppling out of it. Not that it would do any good. Blasted guardianship protected him. Had it protected the stone as well, he might not have spent the past three centuries stuck in this bloody tower.
“Ye needn't scowl at me so,” Bagan said, apparently unfazed by his chilly reception. “I've explained about the storm. Ye can hardly hold me accountable for that. Even Josie said so.”
“Josie?” So that was her name. He hadn't thought to ask last night. It sounded… odd on his lips. Foreign. “Short for Josephine, then.” Josephine. Yes, he liked that better. “Another MacLeod is she?” That would help explain the choice.
“Nay, no’ a MacLeod. Griffin is her surname. And 'tis simply Josie. Something to do with being named after a family cat.” Bagan waved a stubby hand. “A long story.”
Connal frowned. “Yes, I can imagine. I'll hear it from her.”
“Have yer way then,” Bagan said dismissively.
“Had I my way, I'd have been married to the Lady Elsinor, sired a castleful of hardy bairns, and been long dead by now.”
Bagan offered a cheeky smile. “Ye got half yer desire
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